Fever
by Rosy52
Summary: Spot's sick, but who is there to nurse him back to health? A one-shot inspire by parkranger's challenge.


Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Newsies, but only humbly borrow them from the deep recesses of Disney's vaults for my amusement. So no lawsuits, por favor.

Fever

Clammy bed sheets lay twisted and forgotten at the foot of the bed, pushed away by impatient feet – feet that now lay still for the first time all afternoon. Outside the door, the boys left to guard their fearless leader breathed a sigh of relief. The bug had struck Spot hard and fast, leaving him alternately racked with chills and burning with fever. He had thrashed about all through the night, and by morning he had looked like death. Not that the proud bastard would let them do anything about it.

"I sees a doctor within a mile a me, and I'll soak every one a yous bummers!" They didn't doubt that he'd do it, either. For all his bravado, Spot wasn't fearless, and the kid really hated doctors. So they went on as usual, carrying the banner along the streets of Brooklyn, though it seemed that day that the boy's selling routes passed the lodging house more often then usual, and their eyes lingered a beat too long on the cracked and dingy window of Spot's closet of a room upstairs.

Maybe it was this air of concern that hung in the air around the docks that tipped him off. Or maybe it was just a feeling. Even he couldn't say why he'd gone that day. He'd had a hot tip on the third and a pocketful of change – the makings of a fine afternoon down at Sheepshed. And yet, without realizing it, he'd found himself climbing the steps of the Brooklyn lodging house. Slipping through the heavy front doors, Race was vaguely surprised to find several newsies pacing around the main room. They looked up, startled at the sudden appearance, but upon seeing a friendly face they attempted welcoming, if strained, smiles. One motioned up an ancient flight of stairs.

"He's up there, but he ain't really in a visitin' mood, if ya get my drift." Race nodded, still unsure of what was going on, and crept up the stairs. After assuaging the fears of the guard outside the door (and giving him a bit of a shove) Race finally managed his way into Spot's room. All at once the agitation of the boys downstairs made perfect sense.

Brooklyn was, for the time being, without a leader. In the weak light that filtered through the window, he could just make out Spot's limp form stretched out on the dingy mattress of his bed. His chest rose and fell in shallow, even breaths, sending shadows rolling in and out of the valleys of his ribs and the dip of his stomach. A sheet of sweat shimmered on his bare chest, his pale face, mixing with the dust that tainted him and everything else in the lodging house. For newsies, clean was a relative term, and even by those lose standards Spot had never quite passed. He always preferred a little bit of grit to color his life, said it kept things in perspective. But this was too much perspective.

Pushing all other thoughts from his mind, Race set to work. Once he'd procured a bucket of passing clean water and a spare rag, he settled himself on the edge of the bed and began to bathe Spot's heated body. At the first touch of cold water to bare flesh, the figure recoiled, and a low groan emerged from his throat, but his eyes never flickered. He slept on, too exhausted to wake, so Race kept on mechanically, firm strokes across the torso, a gentle swipe of the face, and every now and then stopping to rewet the fraying rag.

Meanwhile, his mind wandered off to happier days spent in this room – days when the body now lying next to him glowed with vitality, when sleep came only with the sating of passions too long repressed, and when, even in that peaceful sleep, there was no weakness. There was never weakness, not like this, this need. Spot had wanted him, of course. That was never in doubt. And in those quiet, dangerous moments of the night when a breeze through the cracks of the walls sound like a lover's whisper and strong arms encircled him, he could almost believe that Spot loved him, in his own cold way. But he'd never needed him before. Maybe he still didn't. Lord knows the bastard was far too stubborn to die now. When it happened, and it would eventually – leader of Brooklyn that he was – it would be magnificent. No measly cold would take out the great Spot Conlon. Okay, so maybe Spot didn't need him. That didn't mean he couldn't pretend. Just for tonight, at least.

As Race moved to put away the bucket and rag, he realized that the shadows of the room had grown deeper, and there was a distinct chill in the air. Already, night was falling on New York. The boys would be out hawking the late edition by now. Hazily, he wondered what they'd think that night when he didn't claim his usual bunk. But no matter – a good day at the races would explain it all away. Besides, they were never the type to pry. Retrieving the discarded sheet from the foot of the bed, Race kicked off his shoes and gently lay down besides Spot's sleeping form. He arranged the sheets over them both and watched as the last few stray beams of light played across Spots sleeping face before fading into the dusk.

It could have been the bustle of the newsies below, fighting for soap and struggling into their ill-fitting boots that woke Spot the next morning. More likely, however, it was the familiar warmth, so different from the heat of the fever, that ran alongside his body. Long before he opened his eyes he knew what he would find, knew from the smell of stables and cigars and slicked back hair, knew from the way their bodies had curled together in the deep of the night without a second thought.

Still, the sight of it was so much more. Dark circles hung heavily under the sleeping boy's eyes, a testament to his late night vigil. Dimly, Spot recalled threatening his boys just yesterday should they go for help, and wondered who he would be throwing in the river once he was feeling more himself. But no, his boys weren't behind this. They wouldn't dare acknowledge what went on behind closed doors around the boarding house – especially his door. They knew, of course, all but the youngest at least. In such close quarters, these things can't be helped. But everyone has secrets, so no one talked. That was just the way things were.

But then how could Race have possibly known to come? The thought didn't bother him long. What did it matter? He was here now, beside him, his quiet snoring lulling Spot back to sleep. And as he slipped back into unconsciousness, a small smile crept into the corners of his mouth.

_It's good to be the king._


End file.
